Hairy Snout, Human Heart
by Anita Montresor
Summary: The story of one girl's struggle with lycanthropy.
1. Chapter 1

Meg was awakened late one night in July by the sound of the family's pet crup scratching insistently at her bedroom door. At first, she simply rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but the continued scratching was difficult to ignore. The thirteen-year-old witch raised her head from her pillow and squinted towards the small shape crouched beside the door.

"Henry," she murmured, "Stop it."

Henry turned his doleful brown eyes on her and whined, giving the door another swipe with his front paw.

Meg slumped back onto the pillow, groaning. A glance at the clock on the bedside table informed her that it was a quarter after one in the morning. Henry gave another beseeching whimper.

"All _right_." Meg pushed her sheets back, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and shoved her feet into her slippers. Yawning, she pushed herself to her feet, running a hand through her stringy mop of mousy brown hair.

"You really are a nuisance," she told the dog as she wrapped herself in a bathrobe and fished his leash from the basket beside her bed. "You owe me one after this." Henry barked in reply, energetically wagging his stump of a tail. "Shh," Meg shushed him, "You'll wake Mum and Dad."

Henry led the way downstairs and out the front door, tugging on the leash, his nose glued to the ground. The night was warm and clear, the full moon overhead providing plenty of light to see by. The grass appeared luminescent beneath it, though it was still dark beneath the trees of the wood that bordered the lawn.

Henry led Meg in a long meandering loop around the house, pausing here and there to sniff an ornamental shrub or a flower bed, but not showing any signs of wanting to do his business.

"Henry," Meg finally snapped impatiently, "You'd better go, or I'm taking you back inside. I mean it."

Henry didn't seem perturbed by this threat; he merely continued his investigation of the rose bush at the end of the drive. After a moment, however, he pricked his ears up and turned to stare intently at a spot on the edge of the woods. A second later, the hairs on his back stood on end and a low growl emanated from his throat.

"What is it, Henry?" Meg asked, startled. She had never seen the crup behave like this.

Henry continued to stare at the woods, his entire body stiff. Suddenly, he lunged forward—so suddenly, in fact, that Meg lost her grip on the leash; for a moment, she watched in bewilderment as her dog ran towards the woods, baying ferociously. Then, coming to her senses, she tore after him, calling his name.

"Henry! Henry, come back here, you stupid animal!"

Henry's barking was suddenly answered from the woods by a vicious snarl, much louder and angrier than that of the tiny crup. Meg stopped in her tracks, horrorstruck. Something huge was moving under the shadow of the trees. The girl watched in mute terror as an enormous, hairy animal broke from the cover of the trees and prowled into the moonlight. It threw its head back and gave a bone-chilling howl, and then turned and fixed its cruel yellow eyes upon the young witch.

Meg screamed.

* * *

Aileen Marchbanks awoke quite suddenly. For a moment, she wasn't sure what had awakened her, but then she heard it again: a shrill scream, coming from somewhere outside. The witch's heart skipped a beat, and she leapt from the bed, grabbed her wand from the bedside table, and rushed to the door. 

"Thomas!" she exclaimed as she pulled the door open, "Thomas!"

Her husband jerked awake so quickly he fell out of bed. "What's wrong?" he began, when suddenly the screaming sounded again, accompanied this time by a long, low howl. Mr. Marchbanks jumped up, grabbed his wand, and raced after his wife, who was already downstairs.

"Meg!" Mrs. Marchbanks called as she rushed out into the yard in a panic. There was another scream, but it was cut off by a vicious snarl. Mrs. Marchbanks turned quickly towards the sound and froze in horror, but only for a moment. The next second, she had her wand at the ready. "_Relashio!_" A jet of sparks shot from her wand, hitting her target full in the face; the creature fell back, snarling.

The next moment, Mr. Marchbanks was at his wife's side, wand raised.

"_Impedimenta!_" The creature was thrown back onto the ground and didn't get up.

The two parents raced to their daughter, who was sprawled on the ground, face down. Her bathrobe was ripped to pieces. There was blood everywhere. Henry the crup was lying nearby, alive but badly injured; he had clearly tried to protect Meg.

Mrs. Marchbanks fell to her knees beside her daughter and pointed her wand at a gash in her shoulder. "_Episkey_," she sobbed, "_Episkey!_" The spell had no effect.

"Stand back," Mr. Marchbanks said, arriving beside her. He conjured a stretcher and levitated his daughter onto it. "St. Mungo's," he murmured.

* * *

Meg could never remember what happened that night. The next few days were hazy at best. She had the impression of a lot of people hovering around her and fussing over her; there seemed to be many voices, all whispering, but she couldn't tell what they were saying. She made out one word that seemed to be continually repeated, "Greyback," but she didn't know what it meant. She had the vague sense of being in pain, but she couldn't have pinpointed where it hurt if she had tried. She only knew that _something_ was hurting. 

Once, when she felt almost lucid, she opened her eyes to see someone in a lime-green robe leaning over her. The light hurt her eyes, so she shut them again.

"Margaret?" an unfamiliar voice spoke. "Margaret? Do you know where you are?"

Meg tried to shake her head, but that seemed to make the pain worse, so she stopped. The stranger in lime-green seemed to understand.

"You're at St. Mungo's, in the Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites. You've had a rough time of it the past few days. We weren't sure you'd pull through at first, but now it seems you're going to be just fine. You're a very lucky young lady."

"I want my mum." That's what Meg wanted to say, but she was never sure if she actually said it. She didn't remember anything else for a long time.

Finally, one afternoon Meg awoke and felt completely clear-headed. Almost immediately, she realized that the reason she couldn't pin down where exactly she hurt was because _everything_ hurt. She was lying on her side, which was probably a good thing since her whole back was throbbing even now. The left side of her face stung in the sort of way that promised a very nasty cut, as did most of her scalp, her throat, and a good deal of her torso. She raised her right hand and touched her face; the left side of it and most of her head was swathed in bandages, which explained why it felt so heavy. In fact, as she peered at her arms and lifted the sheet that covered her to get a look at her legs, she realized that most of her body was wrapped in bandages, so much so that it gave her the appearance of a mummy wearing a hospital gown.

The sight of the bandages and the gown frightened her. Had she been in an accident? She looked around, trying to remember. She could see that she was in a hospital ward. There was a vase of flowers sitting on her bedside table; a card propped against it read "Get Well Soon" in gold lettering. There was only one other patient in the ward, an elderly witch in a bed at the opposite end of the room. She appeared to be asleep.

At that moment, the door into the ward opened and a witch in lime-green robes came in, pushing a cart carrying bandages, bottles of various potions and ointments, and other miscellaneous medical instruments. She pushed the cart to the foot of Meg's bed, looked over at the bed's occupant, and smiled.

"So you're awake at last," she said. "How do you feel?"

"Sore," Meg replied truthfully, grimacing. Her throat was scratchy and dry.

"That's to be expected," the witch told her with a look of pity on her face. "The wounds are still fairly fresh." She took a glass from the cart, used her wand to fill it with water, and handed it to the girl.

"Thank you," said Meg, sitting up with difficulty and draining the glass. "What happened to me?"

"You were attacked." Again, the woman's face showed pity as she fluffed up Meg's pillows and tucked her blankets more tightly around her. "You're lucky to be alive, if you want to know the truth."

Her body was sufficiently sore to verify the claim of violence of some sort, yet Meg was still having a difficult time remembering any attack.

"I…I don't…" she stammered, looking up at the Healer. "What attacked me?"

"Don't you remember anything at all?" the witch asked with concern.

Meg started to shake her head but grimaced as it caused a jolt of pain to surge through her neck. "No," she said.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

Meg thought. "I…I was walking Henry," she said slowly. "Our crup. I took him out on his leash, but…I don't remember."

"As far as we can tell," the Healer said gently, "you were near the woods when the beast attacked you. Your parents heard you screaming, and they came in time to chase it away. Your father said Henry was trying to protect you; if it hadn't been for him, it would already have been too late when they got to you."

"Where are my parents?" Meg asked suddenly. "I want to see them."

"They're here," the Healer reassured her. "Hippocrates took them to get a cup of tea."

The door opened then and Meg's parents, Thomas and Aileen Marchbanks, came into the room accompanied by another Healer.

"Mum! Dad!" Meg cried.

"Meg! Oh, Meg!" Her mother rushed to her side and threw her arms around her, covering the unbandaged part of her face with kisses. "Oh, darling, we thought we'd lost you! They said…" She was sobbing too hard to continue.

Meg clung to her mother, feeling tears smarting in her own eyes. Her father came around to the side of her bed and put a hand on her shoulder. Looking up at him, Meg could see that he was very pale, his lips pressed into a grim line.

Mrs. Marchbanks finally disengaged herself from her daughter and sat on the side of the bed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. Mr. Marchbanks stood by Meg's head, his hand still on her shoulder.

"Hello, Meg," the Healer who had come in with them addressed her, "I'm Hippocrates Smethwyck. We've met before, but you were a bit drowsy at the time."

"Hello," Meg said, looking up at the Healer apprehensively. He had a look on his face that suggested he was about to deliver some bad news.

"I've been waiting to talk to you," the Healer continued, sitting on the bed opposite Mrs. Marchbanks. "We agreed that it should wait until you were awake and your parents were present."

"All right," Meg said, staring at him. Smethwyck reached out and took her hand, giving it a small squeeze.

"Do you remember what happened the night you were attacked?" he asked her.

"No," Meg replied, "I don't even remember being attacked." The Healer nodded slowly.

"Well then," he continued, "This may be difficult for you to hear. You have to be brave now. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Meg answered, her voice cracking. She was feeling more alarmed by the minute. Whatever the Healer had to tell her, it must be very bad for him to be spinning it out like this.

"Good," Smethwyck said, patting her hand. "Meg, I'm afraid your life is going to be a bit different from now on. The wounds you suffered during the attack are going to leave a lasting impression. The animal that attacked you…" He paused. "You're…you've been savaged by a werewolf."

Meg's stomach turned over sickeningly.

"I've been bitten," she said hollowly.

"Several times, in fact," Smethwyck confirmed grimly. Meg's father's hand tightened on her shoulder. Mrs. Marchbanks let out a whimper.

Meg mouthed wordlessly. She didn't know what to say. Her mind had gone blank.

"As I said, things will be a bit different now," Smethwyck said quickly. "You'll have to be registered at the Ministry, and other arrangements will have to be made as well. But, you know, many werewolves find the condition quite manageable." He was obviously trying to make her feel better, but his words didn't really reach Meg.

"You needn't worry about anything just now," Mr. Marchbanks spoke for the first time. He leaned down so he could look Meg in the face. "All you need to think about right now is healing," he told her. "Everything else can wait." He gave her a reassuring smile, squeezing her shoulder.

* * *

In case you want to know where the title comes from: "For a heartrending account of one wizard's battle with lycanthropy, see the classic _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_ by an anonymous author (Whizz Hard Books, 1975)." --Fantastic Beasts and Where to find them, pg. 41 


	2. Chapter 2

Meg opened her eyes. The lights in the ward had been dimmed while the patients slept. She looked towards the window, wondering what time it was; the light filtering into the room from outside appeared cold and gray, as if at the early stages of dawn.

The girl heard the door open and the rustling of robes as someone entered the room. By the accompanying sound of wheels clicking across the linoleum, she guessed it was the female Healer (Miriam, by name) with the cart of medical gear.

Meg didn't move until the witch leaned over her and tapped her shoulder gently. She looked up; the Healer gave her a kind smile.

"Sorry to disturb you," Miriam murmured. "It's time to change your bandages."

Meg sat up slowly; Miriam pulled the sheet down to the end of the bed.

"We'll start with your head," the Healer said. Meg sat very still as the woman reached out and slowly unwrapped the bandages. The air in the ward felt strangely cool against Meg's scalp; a draft from the direction of the window made the wounds on her head sting.

"_Evanesco!_" Miriam muttered, vanishing the soiled bandages. She then took a bottle from the cart and started to spread a foul-smelling green salve on the side of Meg's face and on her scalp. It burned where it touched.

Something didn't feel right. Meg thought her head felt too light. It might have been simply the absence of bandages, but as Miriam's fingers played over the back of Meg's skull, she suddenly realized with a jolt that it was not.

"My hair," she gasped in shock.

Miriam paused. "Er…" She looked Meg in the face, as though trying to read her expression. The girl stared up at her, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, Meg," the Healer said at last. "We had to shave your head. The hair would have clotted in the wounds, you see, and…well, it wouldn't have been very hygienic, to say the least."

Meg fought an impulse to reach up and touch her naked scalp; it was already stinging enough as it was. "Can…can I have a mirror?" she asked weakly instead.

Miriam didn't carry mirrors on her cart; though it was against her better judgment, she conjured one, a small round hand mirror, and handed it to the young witch.

Meg held it up and stared at her reflection. Her face was pallid and looked strangely misshapen without her hair surrounding it. Her forehead stretched upwards and, rather than terminating in her hairline as it should, kept going straight to the top of her crown; the sight of the bare skin where hair should be felt alien and unnatural. Even worse, if that were possible, was the gaping wound on her left cheek, smeared with green salve and seeping a dark brown fluid. She supposed she was lucky—the beast's claws had just barely missed her left eye—but still, the thought didn't make the gash look any better. There were marks on her scalp as well, some worse than others. The left side of her head looked as though it had been gnawed—which, it occurred to her, it probably had.

She stared at her reflection, wondering if any of her friends would recognize her if they saw her like this. A humorless giggle burst from her throat as tears began to trickle down her face.

"Oh," Miriam said softly, sitting beside Meg on the bed and wrapping an arm around the girl's shoulders. "You needn't cry. It'll grow back, you know. Here," she took the mirror from Meg's hand and canceled the spell, then took a piece of gauze and dried the girl's face. "No more of that, now. You know unpleasant thoughts interfere with healing? You heal much faster when you're happy."

"I think I'm going to be sick," Meg grunted, clutching her stomach. Miriam wisely summoned a bucket and placed it on the girl's lap.

"There's a potion for nausea on the cart, if you want it," the Healer offered.

Meg shook her head. "I'll be okay in a moment."

Miriam went ahead and replaced the bandages on Meg's head and face while the girl sat staring into the bucket, willing her stomach to settle. She took long, slow breaths through her mouth; the foul odor of the green ointment wasn't helping matters.

"Can you lie down on your front?" Miriam asked after a bit. "I need to change the bandages on your back as well."

Her stomach seemed to be behaving itself a bit better now, so Meg rolled over and pressed her face into the pillow. Miriam untied the girl's hospital gown and then carefully removed the bandages that covered her from her shoulder blades all the way down to the small of her back. "You were lying facedown when your parents found you," the Healer informed her, spreading more of the green ointment on the lacerations that covered Meg's back. "It was probably fortunate you fell forwards, since it saved your chest and face—for the most part, anyway—from receiving much damage. Your back got the worst of it." She paused, shaking her head and tutting at the terrible wounds crisscrossing Meg's spine. "He really tore into you."

"Who's 'he'?" Meg asked, lifting her face from the pillow.

For a moment, Miriam didn't answer. When she finally spoke again, her voice seemed to tremble with suppressed emotion.

"'He' is Fenrir Greyback," the Healer told the young witch, "quite possibly the most savage werewolf alive today." She paused again, and then said quietly, "He's also a Death Eater."

Meg felt a chill crawl up her spine. For a moment, she couldn't speak. Her mouth worked silently, and then finally, she asked, "Why me?"

"Why anyone?" Miriam replied dismissively. "I suppose you were simply convenient at the time. Greyback prefers children over any other victims, and you must have been young enough to be appealing."

The two of them lapsed into silence for a bit. Meg's brain was whirling, confused and frightened thoughts weaving in and out of her consciousness.

"There you are," Miriam said finally, fastening the last bandage. Meg rolled onto her side and curled herself into a protective ball. Miriam pulled the sheet up and tucked it around her, patting the girl's shoulder comfortingly. "I expect your parents will be in to see you later," the Healer said. Meg merely nodded, contracting into an even smaller ball. Miriam patted her shoulder again and left, taking the cart with her.

Meg closed her eyes. She felt pale and flimsy. How long had she been here? She spent so much time sleeping now that it was hard to keep track of how much time had passed. She knew it had been at least a day since Smethwyck had come to speak to her. Perhaps it had been longer than that. She couldn't really remember.

She must have dosed off then, because the next thing she knew, her mother was leaning over her to plant a kiss on her forehead.

"Good morning, Sweetie," Mrs. Marchbanks murmured, petting Meg's forehead lovingly. Meg looked up at her mother and managed a weak smile. The woman wasn't crying now, though she looked very pale and strained. Her husband stood just behind her, holding a bundle that seemed to be breathing.

"How are you feeling today?" Mrs. Marchbanks asked as her daughter unfolded herself and sat up slowly.

"About the same," Meg replied, cringing as the movement pulled at the wounds on her back. Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and put a comforting hand on Meg's knee.

"We brought you a visitor," Mr. Marchbanks spoke up, carefully placing his bundle in Meg's lap.

"Henry!" Meg exclaimed as the crup poked his head out of the blanket that covered him. Henry lifted his nose to sniff Meg carefully before touching his tongue to her chin. Meg planted a kiss on the top of his head and then scratched him behind the ears, just the way he liked it.

"We thought seeing a friend might cheer you up," Meg's mother said, managing a smile at her daughter's obvious delight.

Meg was inspecting the crup carefully. Inside the blanket, his body was wrapped in bandages, as was his right front leg.

"What happened to him?" Meg demanded, distressed at the sight.

"He's been a brave little boy," Mr. Marchbanks explained, "He tried to take on the beast that attacked you single-pawed. The witch from the _Magical Menagerie _in Diagon Alley says he should be fine." He paused, as though unsure whether he should continue, before saying, "Werewolves are usually only dangerous to humans."

Meg's stomach seemed to turn over at the sound of the word "werewolves." She tried to hide her discomfort by nuzzling Henry, but her parents saw.

"Meg," her father said, placing a hand on her shoulder, "you have to get used to hearing it. You'll be hearing much worse before long."

"But, Darling," Mrs. Marchbanks said, leaning forward, "whatever happens, don't forget that we love you."

Meg didn't say anything. She wished her parents didn't feel it necessary to talk about it. She didn't want to talk about it.

"Meg," her father said, sitting beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders, carefully so as not to hurt her. "The school governors contacted us last night."

Meg looked up in surprise. School didn't start for another month. "What for?" she asked, perplexed.

Her parents exchanged worried glances. "They heard about the attack," Mr. Marchbanks continued slowly, "It was reported in the _Prophet_…"

"Mum?" Meg interrupted. Her mother was crying again.

"Meg," Mrs. Marchbanks spoke tearfully, "They don't want you to go back to school."

Meg stared. She was sure she couldn't have heard correctly. "What do you mean?" she questioned, looking from one parent to the other. "I have to go to school."

"Meg," her father spoke in a defeated tone, "Other parents won't want their children exposed to a werewolf."

Again, her stomach seemed to roll over. "But I…" Meg started, but then stopped, confused. She had been about to protest, "But I'm _not_ a werewolf!"

"The governors have voted," her father continued in the same flat voice. "They all agreed; sending you back to Hogwarts would be an unnecessary risk."

"But I have to go back!" Meg exclaimed. An inexplicable fear was rising in her chest. "I…how…" There were so many things she felt she had to say that they seemed to become tangled in her throat for a moment. "I won't be able to do magic if I don't go to school!" she finally burst out. "That…I…they won't snap my wand, will they?"

"You haven't been expelled," Mr. Marchbanks said, smiling in spite of himself. "You can keep your wand, Meg."

"But…but what's the use if I can't do magic?" Meg protested.

"Darling, calm down," Mrs. Marchbanks said, reaching for her daughter's hand. Meg, however, was practically beside herself.

"I have to go to school! I haven't even taken my O.W.L.s, yet! I won't be able to get a job, or anything!"

"Sshh," her father shushed her, folding his arms around her as she began sobbing. "You're getting too excited. Just relax for a moment." Meg hiccoughed convulsively, pressing her face against her father's chest. She felt her mother rubbing the back of her neck soothingly. "Don't worry," Mr. Marchbanks continued, "We'll figure something out. It's not the end of the world."

Meg wanted to believe him, and in a way, his words were comforting. She knew her parents wanted her to get through this just as much as she wanted it herself, and she believed they would do everything they could to help her. Yet, something told her that nothing would be simple any more. There was a tiny part of her deep inside that felt certain that her problems were only just beginning.


End file.
